guessing games
by allissrose
Summary: I know it's not much, but it's somewhere—and we can always take you, if there's nowhere else to go. —graylu.
1. Chapter 1

Whenever he's here, it's dark outside.

He doesn't go in the _beautiful_ dark, the kind that's like the sputtering out of the final embers of sunset; that's not what suits him. It's the prowler-dark. The shiver-dark. When people lock their doors and kiss their children, and the moon is fuller than it should be and the air feels colder than it _should_ feel. Every honk of a horn sounds like the baying of wolves and every footfall creeps up your spine like the snick of teeth just too long and too sharp to be entirely human. Even practical people, sane people, bundle up a little tighter and wonder if this is a night where strange things come out and play.

And then the practical people, sane people, pause. And they wonder what came over them in that instant, walking in a town so safe on a street so dark—dark, they rationalize, simply because a certain town mayor is too lazy to erect a few lousy street lamps—and they go home and microwave InstaNoodles and totally forget any fleeting feeling of anxiety they might have had.

Since, like, duh. Stories are for kids.

For kids and for me—until the kids outgrow them, because I never will.

Not because I didn't _try_ , but because they won't _let_ me... And if I told you right now that you could never, never see the color blue, or else you would _die_ , and I locked you in a cell with Jellal and Levy and a TV that only played old episodes of _Blue's Clues_ , would you be able to retrain your brain to see black-and-white? Maybe. If you spent decades of intense meditation or hypnotized yourself or something like that.

It sounds like so much work, though. So I'll pass. I'm not the weirdest person on the block, not by a _long_ _shot_. Or maybe I am, and everyone's quirks are just funny little fabrications spun in my mind; it's so hard to tell. Sometimes they seem sickeningly mundane, and other times I wonder why my neighbors are allowed to walk the streets without armed escorts.

Deny, deny, deny—that's all they do, so for a while, at least, I'll play their game.

Boring front and center; and God, lock your imagination in a strongbox and feed it to the talking piranhas you're so convinced live in your neighbor's toilet bowl, Lucy. Walk past Natsu's blue—blue and _winged_ — _were_ cat and totally ignore Jellal's freaky tattoo...which does _not_ mean he's part of an underground criminal cult bent on resurrecting the god of darkness, okay?

By the way, Jellal's girlfriend? So not a warrior fairy. So _not_. And sweet Mira down the hall, who likes to bake cherry-flavored cupcakes, yeah: guess what? She can't turn into a demon.

If that's how they want to play it, fine by me; but I _know_.

But you'd think, you'd _think_ that in a building where everyone is so _weird_ , that my surreal little fantasies and kind of mild, barely there violence — come on, does beating up one pervy ginger in sunglasses count?—would fit neatly into its slot and enjoy a nice, quiet life in the background.

There's a key difference, though, between me and them.

Someone taught them at some point to cover it up, and either I missed the memo or my head was too detached from my body to bother with the details of it. Maybe I'm just a shitty actor. I don't know. But for whatever reason, I can't pretend that every falling leaf doesn't foreshadow an invasion of microscopic aliens on tiny little ships; or that a power outage doesn't mean that the US government has kept under wraps the really scary knowledge that the world has barely enough energy to light up a Barbie castle, and we're all gonna have to go back to living in caves and wearing the pelts of _saber-toothed freaking tigers_. I _can't_. It's instinctive.

Natsu says it's demented. Natsu also eats raw fish and likes lighting my underpants on fire.

Don't listen to Natsu.

Okay, so everyone is—you know—really weird; and that's fine, because who am I to judge? All I'm saying is that we could be weird _together_ , like a support group or a sanctuary or something. We could give sympathetic hugs and have meetings over coffee and donuts where we talk about our weird problems, and it would be all lovely and cuddly and safe.

But no. That's not how it works here in Magnolia, where we keep restraining orders against things like safety and cuddles. Here, we fix our masks on before stepping out our front doors. We drown out the screams next door with our TVs, pretend that all the terrified-looking garden statues on Evergreen's porch really came from Home Depot.

In short, we put the _complex_ in _apartment complex_.

So I drink my tea alone, with a lonely sprinkled donut. Only Plue sympathetically coos at my weird problems.

But no matter how accustomed I am to my fellow Magnolia maniacs, my ears prick up when a newbie arrives. The dark man. Shiver guy. Blame my paranoia, or the fact that I read too many books, but he irks me in ways even Jellal doesn't.

(Don't get me wrong, I love Jellal. We're friends, we go to book clubs and play Wii, but the guy is angstier than Edward Cullen and about as pasty.)

And sure, the man is attractive the way an emo version of Natsu would be. All charcoal eyes, spiky hair, cutting jawline. Yes, he happens to wear his shirts half-unbuttoned, showing a glimmer of black tattoo. Yes, I happen to be eighteen, crazy and a little bored.

I know weirdness though, all casts and colors. I collect it in stories that line my bookshelves. Weirdness needs a home to thrive in, fellow weirdos to inspire it, and someone to coax it out of our shy, boring selves. I've always been lucky, because I had that helping hand. (Actually, I had two helping hands, a head of pink hair, and four blue paws — all of which came with a fish platter.)

When I watch the guy walk past our building at night, he never seems ominous to me. He seems lost.

Tonight, as I settle in with a cup of tea near my window, I watch him make the rounds. The street is deserted, as always. He pauses in front of my apartment for a second, glancing at my obnoxiously pink door. Pushes his bangs back, flicks his eyes up to my window. I know better than to feel singled out; my curtains are pink and luminous, too. Anyone would stare.

He keeps walking. _Like a Mako shark_ , I think. He acts like if he stops too long, he'll just fall down dead.

Three rounds later, a wind kicks up that rustles my curtains and startles me out of my doze. I look out the window to find him still wandering, hands stuffed in his pockets. His breath fogs. It's December, and his shirt looks paper-thin.

God—I should stop this, because it's private, whatever he's doing, and I'm not meant to see. But he's just so... _sad_. So battered. He looks like all the things I ran from: boarded-up windows, funeral homes, broken china figurines. He looks a little like my mom did when she thought she was alone.

The man stops in front of my mailbox again, sending my paranoid little brain into a tailspin. He can see me, he _must_ know… But whatever captures his attention, it isn't me. He gaze stops short of my window, surprisingly intense, fixed on—

 _(Oh,_ I think. So he really _was_ lost.)

—on the "APARTMENTS AVAILABLE" sign hanging from Gildarts' windowsill.

Shiver Guy looks, really _looks_. For the first time, he's still enough for me to study his face—which is thin and winter-pale—and the longing on it is so visible it _hurts_.

So I turn off the lights. It's late, I'm tired, and I have too many of my own painful memories to wonder about his right now. Besides, I know the end to this story already; it's nothing new. He'll look at the sign for over five minutes, pace, and look at it again. Eventually, he'll study it so hard that he'll memorize the number without meaning to. Before he falls asleep, he'll tell himself he'll never call anyway.

But he'll call. In two weeks, or two months, or two years. His type always does. They bring only two or three moving boxes, a sad past and sometimes a leather jacket. They mean well, despite their cliches.

Magnolia's not perfect, but it's a start. We all start here. At the very least, it gives us somewhere to go that's not the street in the middle of the night—it's warm, and the coffee's good.

At least here we can close our curtains against the dark, and pretend for a moment that we're a little less lost.

* * *

 **notes:** ok if u read _chains of the aviary_ u know that i clearly have a thing for stories where gray just wanders around in skimpy clothes at night, sue me

anywho...this was a writing exercise, but i kinda dig the whole "psycho apartment complex" thing. might be a fun multichap. lemme know what you think. love y'all :)


	2. Chapter 2

Natsu is my neighbor and very best friend, who kisses me sometimes when I'm lonely.

He's gorgeous, so I'm lonely quite a bit.

On Saturday afternoon, we're doing our thing: He's drunk on my living room floor, indulging his pyromania, and I'm sprawled next to him with no bra and my lipstick smeared. To the left lie the remains of an Indian takeout feast. I feed him the hot peppers I don't like.

We don't talk much when we're like this; it's our lazy day, after all. Just a sun-filled apartment and cheap beer. I lie on my back, listening to him light matches and watch them burn out. Matches flare like stars when Natsu strikes them, and there's something resonant in the way he does it, again and again, ritualistically and without thinking.

It's ceremonious. It doesn't mean anything at all.

Every once in a while, he'll pause the match-wasting to lean over and kiss me. Quick and hard kisses. Natsu never half-asses anything, even if he's drunk and his mouth burns like spice against mine. Honestly, I think he's just tired; we kiss when we're too lazy to speak, and he hasn't said a word in hours.

Pretty soon his lips are pinker than his hair, and my matchbox is empty.

We take five.

.

.

.

"Oi, Lucy—you up,weirdo?"

"Of course, freak. Like I would ever fall asleep with you here, and let you burn my perfect apartment to the ground."

"I think we should talk."

"Hm, later...You kiss so much better," I murmur, running a hand slowly through his hair. It sticks up at weird angles, looking like some kind of soft, thick cotton candy. Girls would sell their souls for it.

"I mean it." He pulls into a half-sitting position, resting on his elbows. "I got somethin' to tell you, and...don't be mad, okay? Not till I finish?"

"How could I be?" I scoffed. This is me and Natsu we're talking about; he was my first friend, first kiss, the first person who ever loved me best. On our own, we wreck what we like — but we keep _us_ sacred. Always and forever.

"Trust me," Natsu says, eyes dark and missing their normal mischievous glint. "Luce, I'm so sorry, I love you to pieces, I really do —"

"What did you do, moron?" I say fondly. "Eat all my chips? Steal my underwear? If this is about the scorch marks I found in my shower, I already know about those, and believe me I was planning on making you pay —"

"I'm moving out of Magnolia."

My rant halts.

A sound escapes me that's half a choke, half a laugh. "Yeah, right. What did you _really_ do?"

" _Lucy,"_ he says, frustrated. "I'm serious."

"Like hell you are. Natsu, I've known you for a billion fucking years." Whatever panic his crazy joke caused me dies down, so I settle back onto the carpet, lounging in a perfect, sunlit spot. "You're never serious."

It's so warm, with the sweet scent of beer and Natsu fever-hot against my side. The perfect moment for sleep, or sex, or food. But he goes and ruins it, pulling away without warning like my touch burns him.

That catches my attention, at least.

"I'm serious," he repeats. "I wish I wasn't but…I found _Igneel,_ Luce, and he's all alone. I just gotta be there, right?"

When I hear _Igneel,_ truth hits me like a piano to the skull: He's _serious._ Natsu will joke about fire and panties and anything else under the sun; but he mentions Igneel only in mumbles when he's asleep, or the drunken moment before his fist smashes into my wall.

Some things slip away easy, brushed off without a thought. Igneel lingered. He left, but his wreckage stayed. At least Natsu always _had_ stayed, missing the gene that tempted him to skip town without even a note or a kiss goodbye. I thought he had. I'd hoped.

The room goes numbingly cold.

Natsu's eyes are round with distress, hands tucked behind his back as if trying not to reach for me...and I can't look at him, because he is _not_ Natsu right now. Natsu's hands cradle fire, cradle whiskey, cradle _me._ Natsu's eyes crinkle when I make him laugh. Natsu's lips curve into smirks, or press against mine till air escapes us and all I can feel is heat and pressure and _him_ —

"I'm movin' out," he says, voice low. "But, but I'm not movin' far, just ten minutes away, and I'll be here so much you'll barely even notice, I _swear._ I, I just — _fuck_." Natsu tenses, everything on high alert. Every tendon in his neck stands out. "I'm no good with words, but I just don't want you to think that I...that I could _ever_...not need you, or love you, or leave you, 'cause I need — well you know. It's just I finally found my _dad,_ Luce. I have _family_ now. Or new family — shit, I didn't mean — you'll always be family to me —" He curses, flushes and trails away, fixing me with those puppy dog eyes that I'm never immune to. "But you come first. You're my own. Okay, weirdo?"

He waits for my "yes, freak", the next line of our little verbal ritual. But I make him wait. If he can wait ten years for Igneel, I deserve at least ten seconds to gather up my anger.

Which I do. I summon, stew, and force anger out of every pore. I _seethe_. I frenzy myself into a blind rage, and prepare to unleash my almighty fury.

Instead, when I open my mouth, I say this:

"You're my best friend, though."

And before I can stop myself,

"Who else do I have?"

And, as if that isn't bad enough, my mouth truly disconnects from my brain and throws this little gem into the already humiliating ruins of my goodbye:

"But I _need_ you."

And it's pathetic, truly. Who _am_ I? Five years ago, I was Lucy Heartfilia, runaway princess extraordinaire. All I ever needed was a good book and my plucky personality to go anywhere, be anything. I never _needed_ a thing from anyone. Never even wanted one.

"Don't be like that, weirdo," Natsu says quietly. "You only ever needed a friend. And I'm here, I'm always here. You can call me anytime if you want, but I wouldn't even bother 'cause I'm prolly just around the corner anyway." He flashes a grin. "You know I can't live without your snacks."

"If Igneel leaves again, though—"

"Gotta take that risk."

"It's gonna _hurt_ , Natsu. He's been gone for so long, does he even know you? He could never stick around before."

Natsu shrugs. "Doesn't matter, does it? It ain't my problem what he does. All I know is what _I_ have to do, and that's to be with him, for however long he's here."

"I just don't want to _lose—_ "

"Never," he says fiercely. He tilts my chin up so I meet his eyes. "I mean it, Luce. _Never._ " Natsu smiles crookedly, running a hand through his hair. "I needed you _more_ , weirdo. Still do. Where else would I ever go?"

Okay, I tell myself, taking a breath. No matter how long I listen to him, it still feels like something breaking. I know I'm being stupid, because it's not like he's falling off the edge of the Earth. He's breathing and beating right in front of me. I could reach out and touch him anytime.

So I do. He's still feverishly warm, smelling like smoke and spice and all my favorite things. Slowly, I trace the lines of his veins, past his elbows, up to his biceps. I trace my fingers around the border of his funny little bird-shaped tattoo—the one we both got on my eighteenth birthday.

We have matching tattoos and matching expressions: smiling, but barely, trying to enjoy the last moments of being _Lucy-and-Natsu._ We silently toast to the end of a gorgeous fucking era.

"Damn," I say wistfully, hand resting on his shoulders. "It's a shame. You really do kiss good, for a pyro."

"You know you're the maniac to my pyro."

I laugh at the ridiculousness of my favorite cheesy line. And it feels like we might be okay.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. "Natsu? If you're moving out, then...who's taking your old place?"

His returning smile is huge, as he leans in close and says, conspiratorially, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Ha. Like I don't keep _all_ of yours."

"Well, you might not know about him, but there's a dude who just walks around all night like some kind of prowler. Only he's not creepy, even though he kinda looks it. He's...an okay guy, actually. Gray Something-or-other. You know who I'm talking about?"

 _Shiver Guy, huh?_ So he ended up calling after all.

I smile, but I don't say anything. Shiver Guy is none of my business, not yet. And if Natsu tilts his head, giving me a puzzled look, at least he doesn't push it. He knows when I don't to talk.

It's strange though; he may be my neighbor and very best friend, and he's still here, still holding me. But I already feel the edges of a new emptiness starting to encroach. My apartment feels bigger. The air is so much chillier; I'll actually have to pay for heating again.

I'm out of practice, pretending I'm not lonely. I guess now I'll need to learn how.


	3. Chapter 3

**notes** : is this story super weird? yes. does anyone read this story? Unlikely. am i gonna update in anyways, because i am an angsty graylu whore? ...ya got me.

* * *

Shiver Guy brings six boxes, to my surprise, but one's just filled with leather—which I think makes up for any stereotypes he was trying to subvert. He drives a shitty black car with a license plate that reads ICEBOSS.

I'm not sure I want to know why.

As he pulls up to my street, I snoop at him from behind my curtains, trying to judge how old he is. Leather ages a guy. Pale skin—no acne, so definitely not a high schooler, but he's too scruffy to look anywhere near grown up. Nineteen or twenty, I decide. Not a college kid, but clever-looking enough to pass as one. And boringly handsome—no revealing vests or hair dyed a funky color—but the look in his eyes is anything but boring.

And because cable sucks, Erza stole all my good smut and my best friend left, taking his kissing skills with him, I'm starved for entertainment. So I might as well say hi. Be neighborly. A little nosy. Do what I do best.

Six seconds later I bust into his apartment with my most welcoming smile and a, "Howdy neighbor!" I swing onto his counter in a most elegant maneuver. Shiver Guy stands there, sipping coffee. The coffee spews from his mouth.

"Hi," he says.

"You're probably wondering who I am."

"Just slightly."

My legs hang limp from my counter perch, as I take in the barren remains of Natsu's apartment: there, his flame-patterned boxers used to hang, the nook where he stored his NASCAR videos, the table that is clear of empty cereal boxes for the first time in a year. A pang of sadness shoots through me—but no, Lucy. This is no time for sadness.

Not when your new neighbor clearly has enough.

"Lucy. That's me. Heartfilia, technically, but you don't need to know my last name since we're not friends yet and we may never exchange more than pleasantries in the hall anyways." I take a breath. "Nice to meet you."

Shiver Guy's eyebrows go up, but otherwise his face remains a frozen mask of politeness. "Gray," he says. "So…should I offer you coffee, or do you want to stick with the whole 'not friends' thing?"

"I don't know. Do you _have_ friends?"

"Not good ones."

"Do you care?"

"Depends on the day."

I consider him for a moment, with his still-blank face. "Coffee would be nice," I decide. "And my best friend just moved out of this apartment, and yes, I care pretty much every day."

He pours me a coffee, offers, "Bummer."

"Indeed."

"Natsu is a good guy. Reasonable rent. Fixed my garbage disposal."

There's a silence where I stare at my coffee cup pointedly; Shiver Guy gets the message and passes me the creamer. When I reach for it, he holds on for a moment, looking me in the eyes. "Look, try not to resent me too much for being here, okay? And for not being him?"

I nod, because I will try.

But I frown, because it won't be easy.

We sip coffee in amicable silence, broken occasionally by the maniacal laughter that often resounds from Jellal's apartment down the hall (though it is uncertain whether it's Jellal or Erza doing the laughing). Once again, Shiver Guy raises an eyebrow, head tilted. Questions must rattle around in his brain.

He's silent, though. Is he brooding, polite or just stupid?

"Listen, Gray...what did you say your last name was?" I ask.

"I didn't."

 _Okay, man_. I let his evasiveness slide; after all, no one knew my name or my pretty-princess past for months after I moved in. "Look, is there anything you want to know about Magnolia? About how Mira sometimes grows scales? The scorch marks on every window frame in this apartment? You must be curious."

Surprise, surprise. He is silent, dark eyes on my face.

"I'm just saying," I continued, frustratedly trying to provoke any kind of response, "it's a dark and twisty rabbit hole you fell down, neighbor. You just might want some help seeing what's at the bottom."

"You're trying to do me a favor," he observes.

"Yes."

"So you can ask for a favor back, and find out what the hell a stranger is doing moving into your best friend's place."

Chagrined, I stare at my feet. It's never pleasant realizing you're not half as subtle as you think you are.

"...Maybe," I admit.

"Lucy?" He reaches across the kitchen and takes my empty coffee cup, turning away from me to rinse it out. "You can break into my apartment and we can hang out, as long as you don't expect me to talk too much. And if your best friend wants his place back, I'm gone."

"Sounds fair?" I venture, unsure of where he's going with this.

"But I don't cook or let people borrow my car. I don't chitchat. The thermostat's set to thirty degrees and it stays that way. And most important." He turns away from the sink, and there's something in his eyes that no longer seems so benign. "If you ask me why I'm here, I'll have to ask you. Do you want me to ask you?"

A blur in my head of broken china, funeral homes and soft pink dresses… "No," I hear myself say. "I guess not."

"So we're agreed?"

"We're in business, pal."

We shake hands solemnly in his dim-lit, barren kitchen; it feels much more solemn than it should. He is no Natsu, that is certain. But I like something about the way only his eyes change when he feels something, and the patterns his fingers trace on a coffee mug.

At the very least, he will keep me un-lonely and entertained.


End file.
